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RAW Review of Arts & Writing

University College Roosevelt Creative Writing & Arts Journal Issue IV Spring 2014


Table of Contents Poetry


7 Ophelia

15 Mental Starvation

Noortje Andriesse

Anissa Jousset

14 Surrender

27 Dust.


Hanne Alida

11 Fine Anonymous

Digital Art

12 fruit & politics

13 Written Tragedy

Anna Ziya Geerling

Bas Kooiman

21 Elevator

20 Modern Nature

Anna Ziya Geerling

Bas Kooiman

24 Whirlpool

22 Light My Fire


Tess Lankhuizen

25 Life

26 What the Water Gave Me

Tamara Eley

Tess Lankhuizen


Photography 6 Venice Moos Wilhelm 10 City(E)Scape Vejune Zemaityte 19 a Gleamy Puddle Moos Wilhelm 23 Human Hills Vejune Zemaityte

Drawing 9 Untitled Florith Ruigrok 18 Untitled

Cover Art

Florith Ruigrok

Durk van der Meer


May 2014 Dear readers, We are proud to present you with another issue of UCR’s creative arts and writing journal, a compilation of some of UCR’s artistic talent and creative expression. We hope to keep art strong and alive in the academic world. As in last semester’s issue there has been a cooperation with professor Burke’s ACC 321 Creative Writing course in the form of the RAW 321 Award. In the previous issue we featured his students’ best piece of flash fiction and best “short short story”. This time you can read the best “long short story” of the class. Enjoy! We would like to thank our entire Editorial Team for their great work and input. We would also like to thank RASA and UCR Management for their financial support, without them this journal would not have existed.

The RAW Journal Board Anissa Jousset Anne Gerritsen Lukas Hadtstein Tajha Chappellet-Lanier Ilja Küh 5



Moos Wilhelm

Ophelia Noortje Andriesse

Calmly does the water flow Around her still remains On her face a blissful glow About her vanished pains

Her lover had gone mad they said The words all made her shiver She took this news so very bad She ended in the river

To be or not to be he wonder’d But never had concrete – Besides his everlasting ponder – Put all these words to deed


Now this girl so full affection Had heard his contemplation And after his so cruel rejection Took these words into consideration

For what is life, if not worth living An empty shell of skin? Is it ever worth committing This everlasting sin?

Thinking of eternal sleep So spending her last hours She stared into the river deep Her head was crowned with flowers


Untitled 9

Florith Ruigrok



Vejune Zemaityte

Fine Anonymous

Destruction Production Integrated disruption Madness beyond infatuation Ridicule of sinistration But here I am And here you are Standing in the middle of this room In this chaos, with all this deceitfulness around us We are the ones lying, For you said how are you And I said fine.


fruit & politics Anna Ziya Geerling As I ate my mandarin part by part and enjoyed the feeling of putting my teeth in its soft orange flesh feeling it part by part explode in my mouth I read about all the parts of the world doing just the same.


Written Tragedy 13

Bas Kooiman

Surrender D. Visser

sew your limbs together and trick your brain into thinking that you are a lovesick elephant that’s it graphic surgery so your cranium doesn’t crack and white tea to lubricate the process it’s healthy to roast in the sun arise from the ashes like the motherfucking pig you are


Mental Starvation Anissa Jousset “Enigmatic existentialist quote.” -Dead White Guy

He was hungry. Hungry and cold. Not in his stomach but in his head. In his head and his heart. He had come to the bridge to clear up all uncertainty concerning the person he had become and to stare at the night sky. Only it wasn’t night yet and the sky was grey. Grey like a tomb. Or whatever he’d imagined the inside of a tomb might look like. He walked up to the bridge anyway and stared at the winter sun like an idiot. I am a man on a ledge he thought, after which he lit a cigarette and unbuttoned his coat so he could feel the wind on his chest. Existentialist fuck, he thought. A long black coat and a cigarette. Fucking genius. If people asked he’d blame it on the weather. Oh yes it’s eating my soul, I’m not built for this climate, I am an inadaptable slob and a stain on the surface of the earth. Every day is exactly the same. And it all used to be so much fun; he’d been doing so well. So well. He then noticed he actually was hungry. Like physically hungry, and so he flicked the cigarette over the edge and watched it simmer in the dark water below. Damn it all to hell he thought. Today, he hated the world, well, that was the thought he woke up with every morning. He was beginning to think he was bitter in his young age and he wondered whether it was linked to the fact that all the fucks he had ever given about anything had just jumped over the edge of the bridge with the rest of his cigarette. 15

He didn’t like the town, he didn’t like the girl and he most certainly could not stand another day without sunshine. He wondered who in their right mind would leave the coast for such a place and so he began to mumble about the could haves and would haves of his life. Damn it all, damn it all to hell he thought again. He finally lifted his head and remembered why he had been walking in this direction and not the other. He was hungry and there was the matter of the one thing he still had to do. I could shoot her in the head he thought, it crossed his mind a few times and then he shook his head in shame at the hypothetical violence in his head. Who in their right mind? He’d mythologized the act of murder so many times before that it now seemed like something reserved for another class of human being. What kind of a man is not worthy of his own fantasy? Some kind of idiot he thought, the kind who stares into the sun and expects a reward. I am walking all alone and nothing is happening. Every day is exactly the same. Now it was time for something different, a game changer as they called it. Eat shit he thought, eat shit and die, or was it eat, shit & die. He could never remember. A wonderful thing the comma, that shitty little speck could ruin,sentences and, move mountains. He was going on a tangent. He wasn’t a violent man, on the contrary, but recent events had changed the way he viewed the world. He now hated everything and everyone from the moment he opened his eyes in the morning to when the streetlights started to shine and burn neon holes in his dreams. It wasn’t the kind of gratuitous hatred he’d read about and seen at the cinema, it was a special kind of hatred directed at a specific section of human consciousness. Not even people themselves, but more like a fraction of the pieces of their brains. He began to imagine what he might say if they asked him. 16

“Allow me to enunciate my lack of faith”, he would then… do what exactly? So many questions and not enough answers. He stroked the brick walls in disdain of everything that was and had ever been and decided then and there that it all had to end and now if not sooner. He shed his coat and in one flick of the wrist, erased it all.


Untitled 18

Florith Ruigrok

a Gleamy Puddle

Moos Wilhelm



Modern Nature

Bas Kooiman

Elevator Anna Ziya Geerling

The elevators went up and down, as their lives went by. the same ride down, and the same ride up, every day. In the elevator, they were silent. 5 seconds in-between, the everyday dreams the everyday dramas, the everyday smiles, the routine. 5 seconds to think, 5 seconds to stop. In the elevators, they travelled up and down, as their lives went by; until that one time when they took the stairs ...or the jump.



Light My Fire

Tess Lankhuizen

Human Hills 23

Vejune Zemaityte

Whirlpool D. Visser

cowardice tastes moldy on my skin wet by your gaze your hands are cold I flush them away, close my eyes The musk on your scales is thick with hesitation I collect the foam in my hands and spread it all over our bed sheets

denial tastes even better


Life Tamara Eley

That is courage to me to face up to past mistakes, to shame and regret and self-loathing That is courage to me to face up to the future void to uncertainty, unfamiliarity and insecurity And if I do not I am a coward And if I would rather flee into a suspended present that softens me sick instead of a now that toughens my skin and bolsters my muscles, that tastes soursweet then I am a coward life is courage to me



What the Water Gave Me

Tess Lankhuizen

Dust. Hanne Alida

Without any encouragement on my part, I am breath to nostril with an asthmatic hippo. Let me elaborate. I didn't wake up this morning. I was ripped from my sleep in a much more brutal manner. The TV had been flickering all night, carving shadows of 0900-CALL-ME girls in my face. It's that faint sleep of the slightly horny, slightly insomniac-ish. Somebody had turned the TV off. I know. Call the cops, it's an outrage. 6 in the AM, blinks the digital alarm. There should have been plenty of high-pitched morning-show girls on to teach me about Paris Hilton's breast implants. The room was bare without the TV on; talk show lights had been the only decorations. I stumbled through the darkness for a while, searching for my glasses. The room had one window, but the blinds shut out the moonlight from the outside. There was no furniture apart from the air mattress, but I had carpeted the floor with my stuff, with banana skins , cigarette packs, butts, lighters, clothes, razors and all the rest of it. It was impossible to find anything without the TV on. I stepped on a bag of crisps and heard a condescending sigh from the other side of the room. He'd come for a visit. This was not my room. I had a father, somebody who had gone through the trouble of creating me, and very little since, who kindly offered me his garage for shelter. He exchanged the TV plug with another plug dangling from the ceiling lights. I had never used those; we prioritized differently. Lights blinked on. I blinked them away, without success. The tube lights sketched out my father's frown with extra care. He filled out the corner with his broad shoulders and his fat ass. He cast an even bigger shadow.


"Father!" I opened my arms in a faux embrace. I wasn't drunk, which was the first problem that morning. I tried to put on my best slur. My father hates it when I drink. I cultivated the smell of fermented sweat without effort, so the act was all I needed . I picked up an empty bottle. Let's go all the way today. "How are you on this splendid evening?" "It's morning." "Is it?" "Yes." "Forgive me, I had no idea. Time sort of passes me by in here." "I'm going to work in a bit." I could tell. Anybody could tell. He longed for the door. "And I wish you a good day, honey. Dinner is at-" It lights up my day to see his hands fist and his eyes slit and his mouth curl into a grimace. "Shut up." Ouch. He kicked some gunk out of the way and walked over to me. A glass broke and cut wounds into the flesh of his good leather shoes. He pulled me up to the light. His hands gripped my forearms with unnecessary fervour. His nails bit through my skin and my head butted the wall. "You're getting out of here today." "Not likely." "Yes. You are. I won't have you here for one more second. You will go to college or I will lock this door and swallow the key." "Yes, that'll help get rid of me, for sure." "Jason!"


"No. Look at you. Look at you! You're balding, you're fat, you're so stupid I wonder how you can even find the hole in the toilet to take a dump. You let me come here! What did you think was going to happen? We'd play charades, bond over ice cream and you could send me back home? You got me over here! YOU! And now you can't get rid of me, because I'll tell. I don't care what happens to you! I will tell everyone how YOU got me over here! No immigration office, no procedures, just brownnosing and going down! So how about this: you go to the office, and I'll still be here when you get back. Now turn the fucking TV on." "Jason, LOOK." He was holding some kind of document, but he was pushing it in my face, so close that I had to cross my eyes to read it. In the screaming light of my father's garage, I could make out the logo of the Iranian military as if it were neon-lit. The threat was no less clear: he was sending me off to the army. "You wouldn't." But he would. I'm a white boy, born in Iran in 1994. My father is a Dutch ministry official. Before I was born, he tried to arrange Dutch citizenship for my mother and my unborn self. When he didn't succeed from a continent away, he flew back to Holland to get help from a 'guy he knew'. He never came back. He never called. I spent my youth and childhood in Iran, fitting in like white trash in the Bronx. We lived OK. There were days spent nicking old cassette tapes from street vendors and getting away, listening to my mother's songs in the morning and crafting paper mache animals with her at night. There were also days filled with beatings, and dust in my eyes. My mother worried about me more than usual during the year I was to turn eighteen. I watched her frown from the corner of my eyes , when she would stare at me instead of the TV. Iran has conscription: obligatory military service. The military excels in the patented brand of nationalism, fraternal peer pressure and violence that had gotten me beaten up as a kid often enough . There are a few evasion tactics. A big favourite is university, but that's only a deferral. The idea of spending years studying only to bite the bullet of friendly fire somehow didn't appeal to me, so I went with option two: medical exemption. 29

While I went out to compromise my health in the best way I knew how, my mother called my father. That's how I ended up in my father's garage. So now I'm here, at the Iranian embassy in The Hague, begging for university deferral. The embassy building is stand-offish. It must have had red bricks at some point, but a fine layer of exhaust fume dust offers camouflage. A fence, four meters tall, looms over streetlights, but there are holes in the wire. Outside the fence is a path that separates the building from the rest of the area. The tips of tree branches reach towards the fence, but their shadows cannot touch it. I've been here since nine o'clock and nobody has so much as curled their neck my way. There's social protocol in civil procedures that dictates you must be obnoxiously polite and unfailingly patient. And that's just not my strong suit . I've been directed to the waiting area . Amazingly, they play the same soulless shit over the speakers in the waiting room as they do over the phone. There's a girl in the corner smiling at me through the aquarium glass. As I make my way over to her, a Mount Everest of a man sits himself there, so I end up beside a cell-phoned woman and her spawn. "MOMMA! Make time go faster, make time go faster!" This angelic-looking leech is kicking the row of chairs and accentuating every kick with a whine. It's as if she's a fly on a hot day, zooming in my ear and tickling my neck and if she doesn't cut it out soon, I'll have to smack her away. Her mother waves at me apologetically, but continues her phone conversation. "Mom, I'm tired and I need to pee, and my foot hurts." That's it. "Hey little girl. What's your name?" She looks at me like a Barbie caught without make-up on. "Mia."


“Hi Mia, would you like a lollipop?" She casts a careful look at her mom (still bleating away at her phone), then bobs her head up and down. "Yeah? Ok!" I grab a coffee stir stick off the counter, spit on it, and hand it to her. "Suck on that." Dear lord, I didn't think that through at all. She screams thunderstorms for about another half an hour. I relocate to a blissfully sullen old lady in the other end of the room. She's wearing her bowler hat too far to the front, so it hides her expression like a baseball cap. Maybe it's the hat, or the way she slouches, but she looks like a seventy-yearold teenager. "That wasn't very nice." I was just about to reply when she was called away to the help desk. "Save the comeback for later," she tells me, watching me start. She speaks with an embassy employee for at least fifteen minutes and we, the waiting room audience, are all burning a hole in her back, praying for her to hurry or give up. It began as a hushed conversation, tones reaching only a pair of vines far from me, but somebody turned the bass up. "So what you're saying is I don't exist!" "No, no, you're deliberately taking this the wrong way. Lady, I'm very sorry, but I just can't fix that from here." "Woman! I just want a passport!" "I heard you, but I can't set you up with a new passport, because you have no valid means of Iranian identification." "I'M HERE! I EXIST!"


That's when I start drowning it all out. I don't think I realized the trouble I was in until watching the passport-less lady. She's tearing the skin off her face with her fingernails, ready to eviscerate the embassy employee through the bullet-proof glass. The employee is doing her job: resisting every possible service. If she can't even get a renewed passport, I'm asking for the moon. "I would like a deferral from military service, please." It tasted so sweet on my tongue when I tested it. I didn't test the response. "When will you turn eighteen?" I didn't look up the form that specifies deferrals must be acquired at least nine months before your eighteenth birthday. I didn't bother about a university acceptance letter. I didn't bother applying to university at all. I was gunning for charm. Perhaps the thoughts and hopes of going here and solving it all are booze-riddled pipe dreams. I fell asleep this morning after my dad left the room, real sleep, real dreams of guns and fights and love. I dreamed of home, I dreamed with the sweltering Arabian sun on my face and my mother in my arms, and in my thoughts. I flew from home seven months ago. My father had golfed and yachted until he'd gathered enough drunken favours to meet me at immigration with a passport and a winning smile. It has taken a month of false starts, unanswered questions and silence to convince my father that I don't want to talk. "Tell me, how has Marjane been?" He asked and I shut the door in his face. "You can't know that." I spoke to him through the cold steel. A few months of scorn later, my mother called. She'd received a letter from the military asking why I wasn't enlisted yet. The law is the law and the law dictates that, even a dozen countries away, I must fight for lord and land. Only draftees who have lived abroad for more than two years can be exempted from military service. Ignore. Deny. Avoid. Neglect. Reject. Evade. I drank it from my mind. I slept with my step-sister and boozed it all away. It strained the diplomatic relationship between me and my father, but I didn't think he had a choice. Until this morning. "Number 331 to desk 4, please!" 32

Smile on, voice down. Every face turns towards mine. Their stares get me on my feet , but I have half a mind to walk the other way, to be the guy on the park bench, drinking it all away. Instead I step forward and vow not to give all those gawking faces another show. "How may I help you, sir?" "Good morning, I-" "Good afternoon�. It's a minute past one. A plate on the glass tells me that this woman is 'Meira Satrapi, happy to help!'. "Yes, good afternoon, anyway, I was wondering if I could ask you for a favour." "Yes, you may use the bathroom." "That's not really-" she guffaws heartily, and I cannot stop staring at the way her chins sway sideways as she laughs. They vibrate like chocolate puddings with glucose. "You'd better just say what you're here for, and I'll see what I can do." "I'm meant to do military service, only I really wanted to get a degree first, so if you could get me a deferral, that would be great." "Of course!" This massive animal of a woman scurries about between cabinets and returns with a form. "Give me your acceptance letter to verify, and fill this out please." She turns away. "NO!" The impact of my palms with the glass make the cubicle tremble in fear, while making Meira tremble with rage. Heavy breathing and slits for eyes, she pushes up against the glass as well. I am breath to nostril with an asthmatic hippo. "Excuse me!?" "I'm sorry, I just can't give you the acceptance letter yet."


She says nothing. She has a vein on her forehead that's twitching angrily. I rack my brain for something suave to say, anything, but it's not open today, it seems. "It's one of those situations where they won't accept me until I have a deferral." As far as hippos go, Meira has flair. She reaches for the intercom button with vengeful pleasure. "Number 332 to desk four, please." I guess that's my cue to go. There's a supermarket across from the embassy. I find the lady without passport sitting in front of it with a bottle of sherry in one hand, beckoning me closer with the other. She passes the bottle. "I heard you got what you deserved." She looks at me like she's daring me to stand up for myself. She can say what she likes for all I care. . I'll just drink. "That wasn't right, what you did to that child, not right at all." "She was damn annoying." "Yeah, and you made it worse, you asshole." "Whatever." "What was it you wanted, anyway?" "To go to university." "Really? You don't seem like the type." "To defer military service." "Coward. Why do you have military service if you live here?" "I haven't lived here long enough." "You made a run for it, is that about right?" "Yeah, that's about right."


"Oh man, they would beat the shit out of you wouldn't they?" She giggles like she relishes the thought. I pass her the bottle to shut her up. She does, for the time being. We watch the cars pass around us, and I stress about where to stay tonight, and tomorrow and the day after, and whether or not my father will tell my mother that I slept with his step-daughter and whether or not I can ever go back home. And then I stop and watch the cars go by. A fast-food-filled pigeon wobbles across the street and gets hit by a car. I wish I could say that his insides lay splattered triumphantly across three lanes, and that the driver won't sleep without seeing the face of a disembodied pigeon face against his eyelids, but that's not true. The pigeon is a smear on one tire and one lane, and the driver only felt a bump. I feel like a smear on my father's tire, eighteen years after the fact . The old lady is looking me over. "What?" "Where do you want to be? Here or in Iran?" She's sitting up straight for the first time today. "Iran, but that's not really an option anymore." "Can’t you stay here?" "Not really." "I know a way. But it depends on how desperate you are." "As of today, I am homeless in a country where I don't know a single soul. I can't go home, because I evaded military service. I can't really get more desperate. What've you got, old lady?" "I'm Azita." "Jason. I thought somebody just called you Sira inside?" "That's also my name. A name. Jason, I've never done it this way before, so just bear with me." She waits to see if I am focused, and then rushes into a quick series of whispers. She tells me she's an identity thief. "Really?"


"Well, I was also a librarian, but there's not as much money in that." She tells me she's trying to quit, but she needs to do one more job before she can retire. Iranian identities are worth squat, a Dutch one she can use. "Wait, isn't that about stealing somebody's money, though?" "Usually, but I'm assuming you're broke." She hisses that this is not about money, this is about escape. And since I'm not going to be around to reclaim my identity, it's a perfect getaway. "Why won't I be around?" "Because you'll be in Iran, under somebody else's name and papers, living your cowardly life." "Hey!" "Will you do it?" "I don't-" "Come on! What else can you do?" "OK, already! Fine. What do I do?" "You do nothing. I go shopping." I follow Azita, as she parades through streets and alleys at a rapid pace. A pawnshop, back doors, parking lots, a Moroccan on a scooter, a supermarket, a liquor store, Ikea, a morgue. I loiter at a safe distance around dead bodies and nail salons. Azita flits through this maze on low-heeled loafers, saying nothing to me. She leaves me in a corner, while she 'handles it'. I don't know what she's handling, exactly. I know I walked out of the last Albert Heijn with washing powder and light pink toilet roll (for sensitive skin). We're in a do-it-yourself shop of some kind. Not the big kind, where you can buy the kitchen sink and the cutlery and your entire house at once. This is the 'we sell cocaine through the backdoor' variety. And they don't have wallpaper adhesive. "If you're meaning to glue together a fake passport with wallpaper adhesive, I'm walking out of here." 36

I'm swiftly told to shut up and look for blueberries. The sour kind. The afternoon is long. The day is thirteen blocks long, an hour scouting for wine with the right colour label long, ten different types of woodchips long, tracing paper with light brown colour filtering long. My shoulders have blood red pinstripes from all the plastic bags by the time Azita announces we're done. "What time is it?" she asks. It's three. "It's three." "How fast can you get home and back to the embassy?" It's a jog that I would normally do in five minutes, but some respite may be good. "An hour." "Meet me there at five thirty. Bring the things I underlined. I'll take care of the rest. If you can't find them, don't bother showing up." She hands me a form. REPORTING THE DEATH OF A CITIZEN ABROAD Iranian passport of the deceased Original copy of the Iranian birth certificate or Certificate of Naturalization Original copy of the Dutch death certificate Dutch birth certificate of the deceased Cancelation of Dutch birth certificate of the deceased Dutch passport Social Security card (if the card is not available, you should provide the number).

"Hang on, I wasn't born here, how the fuck am I going to get a Dutch birth certificate?"


But Azita stepped on a bus, smiled, waved and off she was. I trudge home with the list weighing down the seams of my pocket. I hope my key still works. It's not beyond the realm of possibilities that my father has had a locksmith come over. Maybe there's been a developer in to draw up plans to extend the kitchen into the garage. As it turns out, the key works. My father has, however, called for the cleaning lady to come by and empty the less useful content of the garage into a garbage bag. She's still piling my Donald Ducks into a wheelie bin when I walk in. "Get out." Two socked slippers scurry out of sight. OK, business: Iranian birth certificate, Dutch birth certificate, Dutch passport, Social Security card. My fingers flick through bags and bags of clothes, they flip through Duck Town, they flip through porn and filth and booze, and they find nothing. I submit to the shameful last resort of any teenager, anywhere. I call my father. The phone grumbles and booms and screams and when I put it down my confidence has flat-lined, but I find myself the smiling conqueror of two birth certificates, two passports and a social security card. When I return, the Embassy building seems much bigger. The roof tiles don't seem as filled with bird shit as before and I'm considering whether they may be scattered haphazardly as a clever ruse to hide security cameras. I find Azita on the bench. The bowler hat is gone. She's wrapped in a lady's suit that makes her look like a liar: but more the political type liar than the career criminal type. "Hey. How do we do this?" "Jason. Let's get this over with. I'm trading you new Iranian papers and you give me the Dutch ones. I'm taking your old Iranian crap inside. They're going to stash it far away. Within half an hour, you won't exist. You can't fly home from here anymore, take a flight from Belgium or someplace else." 38

I can't breathe. "Oh no, this is never gonna work! Woman, you are insane!" "Mind your language, whipper-snapper. It could go fine." "It could go fine? If you're keeping my Dutch documents, what are you giving them?" "Nothing. You died from an overdose in an alley. There's a body in the morgue. We couldn't find your papers. It could go fine." "COULD go fine? What if it doesn't?" "I'll bludgeon you to death myself. Now get in there, keep your back to the aquarium and keep your head down. We're out of time for hen talk." "Why do I even need to come in?" "So I keep an eye on your shifty ass, make sure you don't run off." On that encouraging note, I walk in, shaking hands , and I've never felt less equipped to perform open-heart surgery in my life. I lean back against the aquarium to see Azita take a number. She flashes it to me. 405. It's twenty five minutes to six and there are four desks still manned. Desks 1 to 3 are safe. Desks 4 belongs to Meira Satrapi, the many-chinned secretary Azita and I both already met earlier today. Number 395 is up. There's a man up to register his divorce. My heart pounds like it's trying to beat me up from the inside. Number 396. 397. 398. It's a quarter to six. Azita is tapping We Will Rock You against the back of her chair. Number 400 goes to desk 3. I recite the periodic table under my breath. 403 goes to desk 2. One more person before us. We're nearly at the finish line. The girl at desk 4 is almost done, she turns away. One step to the door and another, and I think I can hear the intercom being turned on. 39

She's called back. 404 goes to desk 3. I drop my head against the aquarium. My ear fills up with the rush of the water filter and it sort of sounds like the ocean, like home. "Number 405 to desk 3, please."


Daily Board Chair Anissa Jousset Secretary Lukas Hadtstein Treasurer Anne Gerritsen

Editorial Board Editors Tajha Chappellet-Lanier Anne Gerritsen Lukas Hadtstein Anissa Jousset Ilja K端h Editorial Assistants Steinar Boomsma Alice van de Bovenkamp Lisanne Cheizoo Laura Dammers Annechris Koebrugge Hanne Olsthoorn Lisa R端ckwardt Madeleine Slot Laura Volkmer Britt Wouters Vejune Zemaityte

RAW Review of Arts & Writing University College Roosevelt Lange Noordstraat 1 4331 CB Middelburg

Nikolay Shiderov Tamara Eley

The Netherlands

Design Madeleine Slot Anne Gerritsen 41



Review of Arts & Writing, Issue 4, Spring 2014